


Bone to pick

by All_I_need



Series: Dog Days [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dogs, Fluff, M/M, Sherlock is a drama queen, dog days bonus chapter, dog toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-28 21:34:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13280313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/All_I_need/pseuds/All_I_need
Summary: A missing scene from Dog Days - A quiet afternoon wasn't so quiet after all. John found a toy.





	Bone to pick

**Author's Note:**

> Happy New Year!  
> This was supposed to be a Christmas present for all you lovely people but I ended up on holiday in India so here it is with a bit of a delay.
> 
> For those of you who haven't read Dog Days: An accident at Baskerville turned John into a dog and he is now waiting to be returned to his human form. In the meantime, there are schenanigans and adorableness.

John was bored.  
  
Sherlock had spent the better part of the afternoon tinkering with his microscope or re-reading the case files while John had curled up on his armchair and dozed.  
  
However, it turned out that while dozing was a great way to pass the time, it didn’t work very well for long when you weren’t all that tired to begin with.  
  
John got up, stretched with a yawn that revealed all his teeth in a satisfyingly impressive way and hopped off his chair to look for something to entertain himself with.  
  
This was one of the downsides of being a dog - no books to read, no TV to watch. Well, he _could_ watch, but the bright pixels were a strain on his eyes and it required some focus, which rather took the enjoyment out of it.  
  
So, he needed something to keep him occupied, something he could do on his own while Sherlock did whatever it was he did that required most of the sitting room floor.  
  
John caught sight of the large cardboard box Mycroft’s minions had brought. It sat on the floor, half shoved under the kitchen table, and was therefore at the perfect height for John to inspect. Breathing in deeply, John made out the smell of leather, dog treats, kibble, and a tennis ball. He wondered what else Mycroft had seen fit to have delivered to their flat.  
  
Inching around the papers Sherlock had spread on the floor, careful not to disturb anything on the off-chance that there was some method to Sherlock’s current madness, he padded into the kitchen and peered into the box.  
  
Just as his nose had told him - food, treats, another lead, several tennis balls, a brush ... John felt a shiver run down his spine at the idea of Sherlock brushing his fur. Sherlock had been exceptionally gentle with him ever since all of this had started and the idea of his large, warm hands on his body, pulling a brush through his fur, was rather more pleasant than it probably should be.  
  
Shaking the thought off - Sherlock had so far given little indication of intending to treat John like a dog and start petting him when no one could see - John turned his attention back to the box.  
  
There was something that smelled quite distinctly of rubber and John wanted to know what it was.  
  
He stuck his head into the box and carefully nosed some of the other stuff out of the way.  
  
“Stay away from the treats!” Sherlock called from the sitting room. “And the kibble.”  
  
John wasn’t feeling particularly hungry at the moment, so he merely whined in agreement and turned back to what he was doing.  
  
Shoving away a bottle of what appeared to be shampoo, John finally revealed his prize.  
  
If he could have grinned, he would have.  
  
Carefully, he pulled the thing out and lay down on the floor under the kitchen table. He had no intention of giving this one up easily and at least this way Sherlock would have to weigh taking it away against the indignity of having to fish around under the table, where John could annoy him by licking his hands or by playfully swatting at them with his own paws.  
  
A soft thumping noise made him aware that he had once again started to wag his tail without consciously deciding to do so.  
  
Oh well, perhaps he could let it pass this time.  
  
John threw another glance at Sherlock, found him still engaged in one of his reports, and lowered his head to bite into the rubber chicken.  
  
SQUEAK  
  
Sherlock jumped and John huffed a laugh.  
  
“What was that? John?”  
  
John bit down again.  
  
SQUEAK  
  
“What on earth are you doing?” Sherlock demanded, getting up from the floor and walking into the kitchen. He bent down, took one look at John and the rubber chicken, and groaned.  
  
“I see. Mycroft has decided to take the opportunity to torture me, hasn’t he? Well, I suppose someone will soon open their umbrella and find it full of dog shit.”  
  
John eyed him sternly, hoping to remind Sherlock of the one-sided discussion they had had about this specific topic.  
  
“Not yours,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. “I am sure I will be able to find some in the park. He will never know the difference. For all his attitude, Mycroft actually _doesn’t_ know his shit.”  
  
John barked a laugh at that. Sherlock rarely made bad puns but clearly the opportunity had been too good to pass up. He decided to bite down again, slowly, drawing it out.  
  
SQUUEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAK  
  
“I don’t suppose there is anything I could say or do that would make you stop that, is there?” Sherlock sighed.  
  
John eyed him, teeth still around the chicken, and loosened his grip just a little.  
  
SQUEEEEE—  
  
“I shall take that as a no.”  
  
John bit down again.  
  
—EEEEAK  
  
“If I try to take it off of you, you will be angry, won’t you?” Sherlock asked. “Your location indicates you were already aware I would try and therefore strategically chose a position that gives you the advantage. Clever.”  
  
John, pretending to be supremely unconcerned, let go of the chicken and bit down again.  
  
SQUEAK  
  
“I will kill Mycroft,” Sherlock said.  
  
John waited, watched his mouth carefully, and the moment Sherlock continued...  
  
“I will-” SQUEAK “-kill him-” SQUEAK “by shov-” SQUEAK “-that-” SQUEEEEAK “-ing rubber chicken-” SQUEAK “-down his-” SQUEAK “-throat! GOD!”  
  
SQUEAK SQUEAK, John contributed.  
  
Sherlock looked like he was fighting the urge to take the rubber chicken and squeeze until every last squeak had been wrung out of it.  
  
However, he made no attempt to steal the toy back, perhaps taking John’s wordless refusal to give it up seriously. Instead, he rummaged around in the box and pulled out something else.  
  
“Oh look, John! A _tennis ball_! You _love_ chasing tennis balls. _Go fetch!_ ”  
  
He threw the ball down the hallway.  
  
They both watched it bounce off of Sherlock’s door, roll back a little ways and come to rest by the bathroom door.  
  
John turned his head to give Sherlock a blank look.  
  
“It was worth a try.”  
  
John rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the rubber chicken, now determined to see which acts of desperation he could provoke Sherlock into.  
  
SQUEAK SQUEAK SQUEAK  
  
Sherlock groaned. “Fine. No tennis balls for you, then.”  
  
He turned back to the box and continued rummaging around in it. “How about a nice treat? I’ve found a yummy chew bone for you. It comes with the added bonus of not squeaking, which I’m sure you can’t possibly enjoy. Your ears must be bleeding already.”  
  
SQUEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAK SQUEAK SQUEAK  
  
Sherlock threw the chew bone back into the box and dramatically flung himself onto his back on the floor. “I am in hell. What on earth have I done to deserve this?”  
  
SQUEAK  
  
Sherlock stared morosely at the ceiling and spoke as if narrating a documentary. “Dog day #3 - John has found the rubber chicken. Life as we know it here in 221b Baker Street will never be the same. I am currently plotting the murder of my brother by means of the aforementioned rubber chicken. If presented with John and the chicken in context, not even Lestrade could fault me for that. Mrs Hudson downstairs is blissfully ignorant of the calamity that has befallen us. I can only hope that I, too, will soon turn deaf.”  
  
John managed to produce a particularly drawn-out SQUEAK to punctuate Sherlock’s dramatic speech.  
  
“That’s it,” Sherlock said, pulled out his phone and started typing. “I am texting Lestrade and requesting back-up.”  
  
SQUEAK SQUEAK SQUEAK SQUEAK ... SQUEEEEEEAAAAK  
  
John paused in his happy biting when he heard a noise from downstairs, then bit down extra hard to mask Mrs Hudson coming up the stairs.  
  
SQUEAK SQUEAK SQUEAK SQUEAK SQUEAK SQUEAK  
  
“Cooey!”  
  
“Oh, GOD!”  
  
“No, dear, it’s just Mrs Hudson,” Mrs Hudson said.  
  
Sherlock raised his head to give her a confused look. “Where is the difference?”  
  
“Silly boy,” she tutted at him. “What are you doing on the floor?”  
  
“Dying,” Sherlock informed her calmly. “I am being subjected to the most gruesome torture.”  
  
John helpfully bit the chicken again.  
  
SQUEAK  
  
Mrs Hudson tittered. “Ohhh, you two are adorable! Really, Sherlock, if you did not want John to have a squeaky toy, you should not have given it to him.”  
  
“I didn’t,” Sherlock grumbled. “Mycroft did. But I shall have my revenge. Just as soon as I have gotten this bloody thing away from John and ceremonially burned it down to ashes in the back yard.”  
  
“Certainly not!” Mrs Hudson exclaimed. “Rubber will only melt and gives off a terrible stink and I have my windows open.”  
  
“Fine,” Sherlock growled. “Perhaps I can give it to a small child and hide it in one of the file cabinets in Mycroft’s office so it can annoy him all day long.”  
  
John wrung another SQUEAK SQUEAK from the chicken, feeling as if he wasn’t contributing enough to the conversation.  
  
“Well, I’m glad you have found some joy in your current situation, John,” Mrs Hudson told him, bending down and reaching underneath the table to ruffle the fur on his neck. “Don’t let Sherlock’s complaining get to you. Lord knows he never cares who he disturbs with his explosions and his sawing on the violin.”  
  
“I do not _saw_ ,” Sherlock interjected, outraged.  
  
“You do when you are in one of your moods, dear,” Mrs Hudson said. “And beautiful as your playing is, few people want to hear it at 3am on a week night - or any night, for that matter.”  
  
Sherlock huffed. “It’s not my fault they chose to have boring jobs with boring hours.”  
  
SQUEAK SQUEAK  
  
Sherlock let his head drop back onto the floor. “Mrs Hudson, please save me from this hell.”  
  
“Perhaps you should offer him some belly rubs in exchange for the chicken,” Mrs Hudson suggested. Close as she was to him, John could see the glint in her eyes.  
  
“Perhaps I should just set fire to the flat,” Sherlock mused. “I’m sure there are more important things than the chicken which he would want to save.”  
  
_‘No’_ John thought. _‘The only thing I’d want to save is you and you can get out on your own.’_  
  
Mrs Hudson laughed. “I don’t think even you have enough money to compensate me for the trauma of destroying my house, Sherlock.”  
  
Turning to John, she said: “Come on, John. Let’s give it one more squeak and give in gracefully before your silly man comes up with something even worse.”  
  
John sighed but decided she was right. It had been fun to annoy Sherlock for a bit and he already knew he wouldn’t get to see the rubber chicken again. Biting it had been quite nice, however. It was somehow satisfying to actually use his teeth properly, to chew and bite as much as he liked without having to worry about hurting anyone. He had had no idea how much strength a dog’s jaw had.  
  
SQUEAK went the chicken.  
  
John rose, the chicken grasped firmly between his teeth, and trotted over to Sherlock, who was still lying on the floor, looking as dramatically done with the world as possible.  
  
John stopped by his side, blinked at him and dropped the chicken onto Sherlock’s stomach.  
  
“Thank you,” Sherlock said. “Good to see you see reason.”  
  
John snorted and barked a laugh at him, wagging his tail and nudging Sherlock’s chest with his nose before returning to his armchair.  
  
Sherlock made to lift the chicken off his stomach and grimaced. “And of course it’s full of drool. Thank you ever so much, John. I shall have to change my shirt now.”  
  
John wagged his tail lazily and closed his eyes.

  
*****

  
Mycroft Holmes was not at all surprised to find that Sherlock had texted him a barrage of accusations and threats, all of which were apparently related to some sort of toy John had been particularly fond of playing with. It was not quite clear from the plethora of bad language and promises of dire retribution what exactly had happened and Mycroft had neither the time nor the inclination to discover what bee had gotten up his brother’s bonnet this time.  
  
He had simply asked his lackeys which of them owned dogs and had them form a small task force to go out and get absolutely everything that would be necessary for a dog’s wellbeing and care. How any of this related to a chicken or why such an innocuous thing should drive Sherlock to actually text him twenty-seven times was a mystery.  
  
However, it was well in keeping with his brother’s general tendency to place the blame for everything even tangentially related to Mycroft’s work squarely at his feet, so this reaction, unknown origin notwithstanding, was not surprising at all.  
  
What was surprising, however, was that one of his brother’s text messages had contained a highly specific virus that had not only made it past all of Mycroft’s and the MI6’s firewalls but had also turned every one of the ringtones on Mycroft’s phone to a horrible squeaking noise that grated on the nerves of even the most disciplined of government officials and that naturally refused to be muted by any means short of destroying the phone's tiny speaker.  
  
He had only just managed to get the bloody thing off his phone and was now drafting a scathing e-mail to his brother, reminding him of the importance of Mycroft’s work and that this was no way to react to some silly dog toy that had apparently given John much pleasure.  
  
Re-reading the words to make sure they sounded as supercilious as possible, Mycroft nodded to himself and pressed ‘Enter’ to send it on its way.  
  
SQUEAK  
  
Mycroft stared at his computer in horror. “Oh dear god, no.”  
  
SQUEAK SQUEAK SQUEAK  
  
And there was Sherlock’s e-mail:  
  
_“Dear brother mine,_  
_I have a bone to pick with you._  
_Enjoy._  
_SH_  
_PS: Next time, supervise your lackey's purchases more closely.”_  
  
SQUEAK.  
  


 

  
The End


End file.
